A Future We Would Make Ourselves

By littlelights

Disclaimer: I am not making any money, blah, blah, blah.

Thanks to the reviewers for their feedback. This was a little late, as I was swamped with projects IRL. This has been a great ride. Thanks for being part of the journey. Don't forget to leave a review.

XxX

Chapter 36

Tormund Giantsbane standing just left of the yard enjoying his second favorite past time in Winterfell – watching the ample figure of Brianne of Tarth spar with one of her many opponents. The way the lady moved, her sword strokes measured and confident, never failed to make him smile. She was a rare woman, and he'd been patiently waiting to pluck her up for more moons than he could recall.

Tormund was a patient hunter. He knew when to flush game, when to wait for an animal to become snared in a trap, and how to piss far enough away from the fish as to not disturb them during spearfishing. All of that came in handy when providing for his people during the long winter.

But what he desired more, was to coax his cock between the legs of a certain blonde southerner.

When he first saw his lady ride through the gates of Castle Black, Tormund thought he was seeing a vision from the Old Gods – a warrior princess from long ago reborn with armor and steel. He was besotted with her, really. Couldn't take his eyes off her.

He'd given Brianne signs of his interest many a time. She'd rolled her eyes and stalked away. He didn't need to force women into his bed. If they were amenable to a long hot night with him under the furs, they'd find their way to his tent soon enough.

But Lady Brianne was different, he supposed. Southerners were removed from the traditions of the free folk. More prudish. Less direct. A warrior lady with armor was bound to play by a different set of rules than his own people. She seemed flustered and uncomfortable with him all the time, as if she didn't know how to accept his advances. She was probably still a maid. No man south of the Wall knew how to handle such a strong and capable creature.

Kneelers were fickle that way, he thought. Tossing away a woman just because she wasn't the kind to wear pretty dresses and sit around all day. It was a shame, really. If she'd been among his people, he would have stolen her away within a month before another man could claim her. There'd be bruises, a few broken fingers, maybe a dislocated shoulder, but he would have had her wet and wanting before he was beat up too badly. Skittish as a stolen horse, his goddess. By the Old Gods, he'd love to be the one to ride her. And then watch her ride him.

Blood pooled in his leggings when Tormund saw his lady knock her opponent down. Brianne stood over the man, and helped him up, giving him a few kind words in return. She glanced up for a moment and met his stare. Tormund's mouth watered, he shot her a suggestive look and wiggled his eyebrows. She couldn't mistake his intentions. Brianne went still, caught between fight and flight, before she turned her back and walked hastily toward the armory.

Letting out a sigh, Tormond watched her shapely backside disappear through the archway. She was the itch that refused to be scratched, he thought. He wanted no other body beneath him but that mighty woman. He'd wear her down gradually. Maybe let her rough him up a bit in a match or two. Let her get close so he could smell the scent of her skin. That would be a victory in itself.

The servant who appeared next to him interrupted Tormund's thoughts.

"The king has asked for you, ser," the boy's voice didn't shake, but it cracked a bit belaying his age. He couldn't be any more than fourteen and probably enlisted to help house and see to the guests. Why was everything in this place so damn orderly? Why didn't they all just see to the place and be done with it?

"I'm no fucking ser, boy." Tormund corrected the lad, though not unkindly. The lands of always winter still ran through his veins, and he'd be damned if he'd accept a bloody kneeler's title from someone sent to fetch him.

"I'm sorry," the skinny lad apologized with a quick breath. "What title would you prefer?"

"Tormund Giantsbane will do." Tormund watched the boy's eyes widen, the rumors of his people's exploits at the wall were no doubt circulating among the kneelers here. Their keeps were safe due in part to the sacrifices of his people, and he was going to damn well remind them of it. "Show me where the king is holding up these days, when he's not with his pretty wife."

They walked together through the stone corridors of Winterfell to the King Crow's familiar council room. Tormund had drifted into the place before they left for the war at the Wall, listening to plans and pointing out flaws when it suited him. Now that the war was over and the alliance of armies were returning to their homes, Tormund hadn't seen the crow king at all.

He'd seen plenty of him the day they arrived in Winterfell, sitting beside his red-haired lady and looking like a man being thawed out from a long freeze. Then he'd disappeared into his rooms for a bath and hadn't been seen for over two days. No sign of the lady either. Now the former Snow had surfaced from his wife's bed to start commanding folk around again.

Fucking kneelers. Always throwing away a good opportunity to dive deep inside a willing woman to scrabble about with things that really didn't matter.

Tormund didn't knock, he just pushed the door open, smiling faintly when he saw the Three Eyed Raven, the King in the North, and the Mother of Dragons conversing softly around a table. They were discussing the little hatchling dragons who were being kept warm and safe in the queen's chambers, all three being kept entertained and well fed by Lord Tyrion and an ever helpful Missandei.

"Thought you would've stayed holed up with your wife for a week, King Crow." Tormund greeted, enjoying the way Jon looked contrite at being called out for ploughing his wife. "She still abed recovering from what you gave her?"

Tormund grinned at the Mother of Dragons, who cast her eyes downward in silent amusement. The boy raven, however, just stared passively at him. Brandon Stark was a tough one to read.

Letting out a breath, the king recovered his wits. "I wanted to discuss the future of free folk with you, and to see if they'd be amiable to what the queen and I have in mind."

Tormund smiled broadly at the silver haired lady, whom he liked even more since he saw her emerge from a flaming pyre unharmed. She had yet to ask him to bend the knee, and since Tormund had saved the life of the Unsullied commander at one point, he reckoned she'd be unlikely to ask.

"You look like you need a drink, little raven," Tormund surmised.

"Just tired," Bran said dully. "I haven't slept well since we arrived."

Tormund nodded sagely. "Is the reason have dark curly hair and carry a bow? Because if it is, I can tell you how to remedy that."

Bran shook his head with a sad smile. "I can't steal her. I wouldn't get very far." The wheeled chair the lad was sitting in was a marvel to be sure, but it was obvious it wouldn't take the place of two strong legs.

"You could set a trap for her. Use your chair to your advantage." Tormund suggested.

The king interrupted before the juicy parts of the plan could be spoken openly. "There's no one left north of the wall, from what we know. All the surviving free folk are here in Winterfell or up at Castle Black. Your people need a warm place to congregate this winter, as well as a permeant place to call home. The Boltons are dead and gone. Their keep at Dreadfort is nearly empty, and the lands abut Winterfell's boundaries. I'd like to offer it to you and your people in gratitude for what you've done."

"A keep?" Tormund said stiffly. "What the fuck am I going to do with a heap of stone?"

"You'd be Lord Tormund of House Giantsbane. Protector of the north and leader of the free folk south of the wall. Your people fought and died beside the other houses to help take back Winterfell, and they rallied with the armies of Westeros to defeat the Night King. They deserve a land to call their own."

"I'm no kneeler," The caution in Tormund's voice was evident. "The free folk kneel to no man or woman."

"And I wouldn't ask it of you," Jon agreed. "We've worked, fought, and bled together for a long time now. The free folk should be free to move about the lands of the Dreadfort and Winterfell freely, hunting, trading, and tending crops if they wish to grow them. There are children, women, and old people who should stay warm by the hearth and know they don't have to worry about how to feed themselves this winter. You're they're leader. I'm not. So I'll ask you to be Lord of the Dreadfort, and continue to lead and provide for your people without visiting violence on others. Come spring, should the free folk wish to return north or stay here is up to them. No one will stop them from coming or going north as they please. I leave it to you to make the decision to stay, go, or travel when ready."

It wasn't a bad idea in theory. A large keep for his people, there were just under three thousand of them now. Some would want to camp and hunt, while the orphans, little children, and most venerable folk could be housed inside. The King Crow hadn't gone back on his word since he'd taken up arms with him. Could a lordship really be the answer to surviving the winter?

"I'm not a lord," Tormund reminded the king. "Don't want a title. Don't need a title."

"I didn't want mine either," Jon countered. "The houses of the north and the rest of Westeros understand titles. It's not their way to have a man hold a keep without one. It's just not done. You've held titles among the free folk. I remember one of them calling you the Mead-King of Ruddy Hall and Husband to Bears. What's one more title?"

The crow king was right, of course. What was one more title when he already had so many? Still, the quiet in the room stretched out as Tormund contemplated the offer. It was important he didn't appear too eager to accept.

"I'm sure you could use some help with transitioning to the obligations of lordship," The Mother of Dragons said politely. "Are you married Tormund?"

He chuckled brightly, amused with the idea of what the kneelers considered wife material. "My wife died, then I took up with a bear," he replied.

"Then maybe taking a wife from a noble house may help," Daenerys suggested.

"My people have a fearsome reputation to uphold," Tormund pointed out. "I would need a fearsome lady by my side to keep my people together while the snow falls."

"Who did you have in mind?" The silver haired monarch asked.

Tormund smiled broadly. So this was how he would trap his warrior lady. Not with a kidnapping or a rough wooing, but by trading with the Mother of Dragons. Could it really be so simple? The free folk would baulk at taking a spouse by force, opting for a knife to the gut or a hammer to the skull over being attached to someone they didn't want. But kneelers were different. They had strange customs. Maybe he could bend this advantage.

"Brianne of Tarth," Tormund grinned, relishing the thought of his blonde lady attempting to throttle him with her clever hands, only to have her on her back gasping and moaning over the tongue and fingers pleasuring her ample body. Oh yes, this was going to be fun.

The queen nodded, no looks of surprise or hesitation on her face. "I will speak with the lady and correspond with her father directly. I think she's an excellent choice. Given what Lady Sansa has told me about Lady Brianne, her father will be overjoyed to have such a proposal."

"The lady, on the other hand, may have a different opinion." Jon's voice was neutral, he adopted the tone when he was trying to keep all the cycling politics spinning at the same time. "She should have a say in which man she marries. No stealing, Tormund."

"Stealing is the way of my people," Tormund chided the king.

"She may want to be married in a sept or at the heart tree in front of the Old Gods." The king was certainly placing more demands on the agreement. When Tormund huffed and rolled his eyes, the King in the North threw in a compromise. "You can steal her after the ceremony in lieu of a feast."

As far as deals went, it wasn't a bad one. Tormund stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I want to marry her before my people move to their new land."

"Two months, no later," the queen agreed. "I know everyone would feel better to be surrounded by their own fires by then."

"Done," Tormund agreed. "The Old Gods will hear our words at your heart tree. I want them to see what she'll be in good hands with me. After all, they were the ones who placed her down upon the earth."

XxX

There were smiles from everyone at Tormund's words. When the bargain had been struck, Jon moved his attention to his youngest cousin.

"Bran, you said you don't want to be Lord of Winterfell. Sansa and I reluctantly agreed to let you step aside, but now I feel I must ask something of you in return."

The youngest lord was used to bad news, Jon thought. Why couldn't he come up with the words when his family needed them the most?

"What do you need, Jon?" Bran replied. His time as the Three Eyed Raven had made him accustomed to being asked to perform deeds or experience visions he didn't necessarily wish to do.

"Howland Reed advised me to place more men at the Neck. There's not a war on right now, but it's better to have able men at the ready to keep eyes and ears open to who's coming and going through there come spring. Moat Cailin is a strategic point which has been long neglected. Since you will not take up your seat at Winterfell, I would ask you take up stewardship of Moat Cailin for House Stark."

"Moat Cailin is a ruin," Bran reminded his cousin. "It hasn't been manned in centuries."

"If it had been ready during the War of the Five Kings, Robb would have had the men he needed to protect the north from the Ironborne. Winterfell wouldn't have burned, and House Bolton wouldn't have held a position of power. By keeping a garrison and hall at the Neck, Winterfell and all the houses of the North will be less vulnerable."

"None of the towers are habitable." The young Stark noted. All the years Bran spent under Maester Luwin's tutelage seemed to be resurfacing. "We'd need a hall, out buildings, all of it. It would be expensive. How will we pay for this when all of us will be barely scraping by this winter?"

"The crown of Westeros will pay for it," Queen Daenerys belayed the concerns creeping into the conversation. "The country owes you a great debt, Brandon Stark. Without you, we would not have come together to do battle against the Long Night. Without your army of animals, we would have been blind to all that lurked in the winter winds. And without your visions, I would not have found my family."

"I'm the Three Eyed Raven now," Bran pointed out. "The burden of the gift is mine to share when the necessity arises. I didn't do it to seek fame or reward."

"But you'll have it regardless," The Dragon Queen stated gently.

"Moat Cailin belongs to House Stark," Jon nodded. "It's not the same as having your own keep, but you'd be doing the North a great service by scouting for armies from the air with your birds. No rider could be faster than a raven sent from Moat Cailin. And you'd be helping the small folk too, helping with petitions and distributing food and supplies to them that need it. They won't have to travel to Winterfell to receive justice."

When silence swept the room Jon shot a glance at his aunt. They'd been so confident during their long journey south that Bran would jump at the chance to have his own home, a place where he could put his gifts to good use and still retain his privacy. The last thing Bran wanted was to be sought out by the powerful or the desperate, as was often the lot of a woods witch or fortune teller.

"Why did Lord Reed ask you about Moat Cailin?" Bran said after a few moments.

"He wants to join our houses," Jon said simply. "He asked if I would consider you as a match for his daughter." All at once, the energy in the room changed.

"Lord Reed wants to join our houses?" Bran seemed to have difficulty forming words.

"Meera is his only child and heir," Jon explained. "She needs to be married and have a family of her own soon. Since the two of you are so close, it seemed like a natural choice. Meera would be close to her home, and able to help her father should he need it. Lord Howland and Meera both want to know if you would be willing to give your first born babe the Reed name to allow the family line to continue."

"I can't guarantee I will be able to sire children." The words fell flatly out of Bran's mouth. It must have been painful to say, but the Stark habit of being straightforward shone through.

"They're both aware of that. Lord Reed suggested trial marriage of five years. If there are no children, I'll dissolve it and give Meera her freedom to marry again. The choice is yours, Bran."

It was harsh, but fair. Jon could see the cogs in Bran's head turning. To have someone you care for by your side, call her wife, and risk watching her walk away later was a grim prospect. Bran's visions rarely foretold the future. Maybe that was a blessing. It made the young Stark lord the ability to make his own choices, just like any other man. Bran needed that normality in his life.

"Tell Lord Reed, I accept his proposal." Bran said confidently. "Would he prefer we marry now or after Moat Cailin has been rebuilt?"

"He's left that to Meera. She's waiting just outside for you. Why don't you ask her?"

Bran needed no further prodding. Nodding his head to the sovereigns, he carefully wheeled his chair to the door, pulled the doorlatch, and found Meera Reed leaning somewhat anxiously against the opposite wall of the corridor. The two of them didn't say much at first, Bran navigated his chair through the door and sat before Meera for a moment, taking in the immensity of his next words.

"Will you come to the godswood with me?" Bran asked. "There's something I want to ask you."

Meera smiled broadly. Bran returned her happy expression. Jon watched the two of them make their way through the corridor. His heart lighter in his chest, the King in the North sat back in his chair, feeling that all the burdens and troubles of kingship were justified if they kept his people safe, warfare at bay, and good people free to live their lives.

Even the Three Eyed Raven deserved a chance to truly live.

XxX

The night Carys Baratheon was born, a snowstorm blanketed Winterfell with a fresh layer of white. The howls of the babe match those generated by the fierce winds outside. Her mother suffered through two consecutive days of labor with nary a raised voice. There was sweat, pain, and more than a few grunts, but it was the quietest birth the maester could recall attending. The little girl slid into the maester's waiting hands, naked, bloody, and squalling indignantly. She was a small babe, overly red and sporting downy black hair. It was her father who calmed her cries, bouncing her in his strong arms and soothing her from the trauma of birth. Her exhausted mother tried to get the baby to nurse, but Carys wouldn't latch until her father sat behind her mother, held them both in his arms, and stroked her pink little cheeks. Enticed by his actions, Carys rooted and nursed contently until she fell asleep.

It was the way of things, Arya thought later. She was the one to carry a babe, endure the pain and worry of childbirth, only to see her newborn find comfort in the attentions of her husband.

It was ironic, but it didn't make the sting of it hurt less.

The next morning was better. The bells rang in Winterfell, signaling the birth of a healthy babe. Arya almost accepted the offer of a wet nurse, but she couldn't refuse the happy look on Gendry's face when he brought their daughter to their bed for the first time, their precious girl crying in hunger, and read the absolute joy in her husband's expression. He loved watching her nurse their daughter. He couldn't get enough of holding their baby in his arms, kissing her little cheeks, and showering Carys with love and affection.

The instant love Sansa seemed to have for her newborn son seemed to skip Arya completely. Carys was a little more than a stranger in Arya's arms for the first two weeks. She was cute, and it felt good to nurse her, but the whole experience was rather overwhelming. It wasn't until Meera Reed knocked on her door to visit the babe did Arya's mood begin to change.

Meera had wed Bran just two months prior to Carys' birth, and the pressure to produce an heir as quickly as possible weighed heavily on her goodsister's mind. Arya and Meera were not the type of people to share their concerns or thoughts easily with others, but in their friendship born in warfare, Meera broke her thoughts down first.

Staring down at Carys in her arms, Meera looked adoringly at the features of the sleeping babe. "It's not that Bran can't perform," Meera said with reluctance. "Making sure he, explodes, seems to be the thing. We've tried fumbling along well enough, but he can't feel much of anything below the waist. He was ashamed of disappointing me. Bran always tries so hard, but we can't seem to find a consistency, if you know what I mean."

Arya nodded, happy to escape her own troubles to solve someone else's. "What are you going to do?"

"I went to some of the free folk for advice. The women had more suggestions than I could keep up with. I was blushing by end of the first one. I don't know how I sat through the half dozen more. I was tempted to ask Tormund Giantsbane to check up on Bran, but one of the women said she'd pass the request along. Five years seems like a long time, but it's not. If we could just have a baby, we can stay together. And we'll need to have a few more just in case."

Just in case I lose them the way I lost my brother.

Arya could hear the words loud and clear. It took another round of idle chit chat for Arya to share her own difficulties. Motherhood was overwhelming, the constant care, feedings, and the absence of sparring in the tilt yard had put Arya out of her element.

"I feel like I'm little more than a slumbering milk pail," Arya huffed. "The maester won't let me out of bed at all. Gendry's insistent I stay here as well. I'm going out of my mind. If it weren't for Oona and the occasional visitor, I'd wrap Carys up in a cloak and break out of here."

Meera listened thoughtfully, patiently rocking Carys in her arms while Arya unburdened her mind. "Where would you go?" Meera asked.

"Dunno," Arya huffed again. "Somewhere nearby where I can breathe again."

At the end, Meera didn't have any profound advice, other than to get to know the baby a little more each day. "And if you don't feel like staying abed, then don't. Take her for a walk. Just make sure she's warm enough and visit Gendry at the forge. Leave her with Oona for a few hours and go spar. She's a half-wolf born in the north. Winter runs in her veins. It's time for Carys to see you at your best; schooling some poor sod in the tilt yard."

That made Arya smile. She felt better when Meera left. It was strange how sharing words with the right people made life better. Arya took it for granted with Gendry. They spent some of their youth together, learning to trust each other when their situations were dire. When they married, that foundation of togetherness was already there. How different life was when you had more people crowding into it.

The next day, Arya rose from her bed, broke her fast, and bundled up Carys with Oona's help. Together, Arya walked her daughter slowly around the outbuildings of Winterfell, and toward the heart tree in the godswood. The sacred pool, the ancient tree, and the familiar rock seat were all waiting for her. There was always a sense of timelessness to the place. When she began walking to the rock, Arya remembered seeing her father sitting in his usual spot between the pond and the tree. She closed her eyes, and planted her feet on the ground. She could see Eddard Stark as he was in her childhood, cleaning his sword contemplatively, then smiling gently at her as she approached.

I was wondering when you'd come here.

Arya opened her eyes. The godswood was still the same but she could feel that connection to the past now. She took her father's usual spot beside the heart tree, and adjusted Carys' bundle. The baby was awake, looking at her mother intently. In the pale winter light, those little eyes looked like hers – blue, deep, and watchful. Words poured from Arya's lips before she knew what she was doing.

"There once was a little girl who lived in a castle in the north. Her father was the head of a great house, and he and his wife had five children."

With each word, Arya conjured images of the past. Faces sitting around tables. Children running through the woods. The gentle gaze of a mother. The strong arms of her father.

"You ran away from your lessons," Ned said gently. "You're too old to be running off like that."

"It was too nice outside today," The younger Arya protested. "There was too much to do."

"And what would that be?"

"Sword fighting with Bran," Arya responded quickly. "We were fighting the Night King and Queen at a battle at the Wall. We managed to kill the queen and were almost about to slay the Night King when Jon found us."

Arya could feel Eddard Stark standing right beside her now, his love so tangible it wrapped around her like the warmest of blankets.

"A blade with a name. And who were you hoping to skewer with Needle? Your sister? Do you know the first thing about sword fighting?"

"Sitck 'em with the pointy end."

Her father laughed. He had a wonderful laugh. "That's the essence of it."

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Her father had saved her life, let her be herself, and raised her with love. Arya felt that love flow through her senses, and when she looked down at Carys again, it was with different eyes.

"You will swing a sword, shoot a bow, and ride a horse," she told Carys. "You will travel, and see the world. Not just Westeros, but beyond. You will marry a man worthy of you, if you choose to marry at all. Winterfell runs in your veins, and no matter where you are, where you go, and what you do, I am your mother. I will always protect you."

Sweet girl.

Arya could hear her father's voice through the silence of the godswood.

Carys accepted Arya's tears without judgement, and gazed at her mother with quiet strength. "Sweet girl," Arya said as she kissed the baby. "My sweet girl."

The imprint of Eddard Stark still lingered. The ancient heart tree, with its connection to the Old Gods seemed to give Arya Stark the time with her father she had so desperately needed. When Arya stopped crying, she gave thanks in a long list which made her knees go numb before she was finished. As she left the grove, Arya kissed and nuzzled the babe again, just as her father had in the memory from so many years ago.

A wind glided up and around the new mother and her babe, before releasing into the russet leaves hanging above, and the ancient heart tree in the godswood went back to sleep.

XxX

Winter lasted five years. Some would claim it was the priestesses from the Lord of Light which broke the final curse of winter. Other would say it was the four dragons in Dragonstone which had lifted the snows.

Either way, the Arya Stark was leaving her home in Winterfell for the long journey south. She and her husband had packed their belongings, acquired a nurse for Carys and were saying their goodbyes to her family.

"Are you sure you want to go?" Sansa asked her sister for the seemingly hundredth time. "It's only a thaw, and not quite spring. It could be a false spring."

Arya shook her head. "We need to get to Storm's End. There's so much to do. Gendry's apprentices want to begin working again and we need to make sure the farmers have enough seed for their first crops. The land there is still in disarray, and without us the smallfolk will suffer."

The smallfolk would need the income generated by the sale of Valerian steel swords Gendry planned to sell in order to refill the coffers of Storm's End. Within a few years, they should have enough swords made, sold, and exported to ensure to the safety and security of the Stormlands. There was so much to buy for a land that had experienced so much loss and destruction. It was time for the stag lord and his she-wolf wife to help in the rebuilding of the realm.

"This will always be your home, you know. You can come back anytime you want." Sansa offer, her Tully blue eyes shining with a few tears.

"We'll come when we can, when Carys is older and it's safe to travel by road." Arya promised. "And you should come south too. Maybe when Jon goes down to Dragonstone, the two of you should come see us."

Arya hugged her sister, giving her pregnant belly a warm pat before bidding her nephews farewell. Robb looked thoughtful as she pulled him into her arms. Arya was hesitant to part with him, as Robb and Carys ran wild through the woods together in their own little pack. If they waited to depart any longer, the separation between the two cousins would be too hard to bear. Three-year-old Ned received a hug and a kiss, while his baby brother Aemon gave her a toothy smile. Oona held the sturdy toddler in her arms, letting him drool contentedly on her dress.

Ensconced in her father's arms, Carys kissed a doting Lady Olenna on the cheek. The older woman was a popular fixture in Winterfell, and the children adored her. Her stories were the ones Robb and Carys begged for, and Lady Olenna was indulgent in telling tales from the southern lands of long ago. Gendry was smiling as the matriarch wished him a safe journey and list of sound advice about traveling with children.

It was when Arya embraced her younger brother Bran that she began to have second thoughts about leaving. All of her surviving siblings were together. They'd been safe and happy with their growing families in Winterfell. What if she was making the wrong decision by leaving before spring?

"Don't doubt yourself, it's not going to make it easier," Bran could read her emotions plainly. He and Meera were getting ready to leave for Moat Cailin later in the year as well. They couldn't venture out until Meera delivered their second babe. Poor Meera was experiencing the worst bout of sickness common to women in the first stages of pregnancy. She'd had few problems when she carried little Arra Reed, but Oona said sickness sometimes signaled the coming of a boy. Only time would tell.

"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives," Arya reminded her brother, still hesitant to leave her family behind.

"You have a pack of your own," Bran pointed out. "A husband and a daughter. Your pack may be small, but it's fierce."

Arya smiled at that, her gaze turning to Jon as he held Carys up in the air, both of them grinning madly at each other. It was a scene Arya never grew tired of seeing. Jon reminded her so much of father, it took her breath away at times.

"You should stop taking moon tea," Her brother intoned quietly. There was a heaviness in his voice he only used when he was speaking of things he'd seen in his visions.

"The last time you said that I was already with child." Arya snorted. Her daughter was created in the darkest of winter in a place far away from the rest of the world. Arya hadn't been thinking of motherhood when she and her husband coupled together in a dark area of his forge.

"The moon tea is poisoning you, I've seen it." Bran continued, his voice a warning. "If you keep taking it, your body won't be able to conceive. Let your children be born, Arya. You were always meant to have them."

Biting the inside of her cheek, Arya hugged her little brother again. It was an awkward hug, as it always was when he was in his chair, but she stooped low enough to press him close.

"I don't want it to be-"

"Like the last time?" Bran finished. "You did exactly what you needed to do. Every birth is different. Every babe is different. If you need us, Meera and I will travel as fast as we can to get to you. You, and Gendry, and Carys. There's nothing we wouldn't do to help you."

Even if the something was helping her through a bout of melancholy madness after giving birth to a babe, Arya thought. Her depression had been the reason she kept taking moon tea for as long as she had. Looking at the happy smile on her daughter's face, Arya didn't want to be anything but her best for Carys and Gendry.

Arya released her brother, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She continued her goodbyes, and after one last embraced from Jon, mounted her horse. They were taking the road to White Harbor, and a ship to the south. Gendry and Carys shared a steed, the two of them looking forward to the long journey to Storm's End. It was sad to leave Winterfell, but the road to her family's new keep was waiting for them.

More children. Gods be good. What would happen?

Taking Bran's warning to heart, Arya called Oona over for one last time. Reaching into her side bag, Arya handed the bag of moon tea into Oona's weathered hand.

"Don't think I'll be needing this anymore." Arya said lightly Oona's eyes widened. "See that someone gets it who needs it."

"Won't be your sister, that's for sure." Oona drawled. "But I may know a few girls who do."

Arya nodded her thanks and with a last wave goodbye to her family, their little company left for White Harbor. When she came to the top of the hill, Arya looked back at Winterfell. It didn't look as it did when she left for King's Landing so many years ago. How could she have known she wouldn't return for years, or even resemble the same child she'd been?

The godwood with its enormous heart tree stood just as it probably did for centuries. It had been her comfort these five years, to bring her sword to her father's spot and just think. Carys and Robb ran wild through the trees, filling the forest with happy laughter. Soon little Ned, Aemon, and the other Stark children would do the same. They'd see the new blooms, the green grass, and experience the same golden sunshine of her own youth.

The Starks of Winterfell would endure. Their growing pack would thrive.

Arya led her horse in to a trot, and took a spot next to her husband.

"Do you think Storm's End has a godswood?" Arya asked nonchalantly, not wanting to appear too keen to change a place she hadn't seen yet.

"I dunno," Gendry replied, making sure Carys wasn't leaning too far out of his arms. "Do you want one?"

Arya nodded. "Yes, I do." It wouldn't be the same thing as home, but it would still be a wild place with green growing things. Her children would be able to find her there, cleaning her sword and clearing her head. They'd walk out of the woods together, just as she and her father had done long ago.

"We'll make a godswood then, if it doesn't already have one. Maybe we can get a weirwood tree from the Isle of Faces. Don't know how we'd get it back, but we'll think of something. Starks don't do well away from their heart trees, and it's always good to have the old gods close by. Just in case."

"Just in case," Arya repeated. It was so like Gendry to sum up what she was thinking in his own direct way. With a lighter heart, the She-Wolf of Winterfell left the north once again. This time, she had her own pack, a cause to call her own, and a husband by her side.

It was time for House Baratheon to grow and thrive again.

XxX

In the blush of late spring, a chest bearing the proud stag of House Baratheon and the fierce direwolf of House Stark was delivered to the temple of the Many-Faced God in Braavos. It was placed on the steps of the temple, with a messenger instructed to stay with the chest until it had been acknowledged in person.

The messenger knocked on the door. A gray robed man answered. Without a word, the messenger handed the acolyte a sealed letter and left.

The man who occasionally wore the face of Jaqen H'ghar opened the chest to find a sizeable collection of silver moons and gold dragons. Breaking the direwolf seal of the letter, the man read the contents of the letter. A small smile of pride ghosted his handsome face.

Houses Stark and Baratheon gift this chest to the House of Black and White as a token of gratitude and esteem. May its contents outbid all those who would wish a name from our houses to be offered up to the Many Faced God.

Vallar mogolais.

Arya Stark of Winterfell

Lady of Storm's End

XxX

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